That was when Elena slid out the first document.

I saw the county seal.

I saw my name.

And then I saw the second tab in the folder.

Marjorie Hale.

Below it were two more.

Declan Hale.

Fiona Hale.

Marjorie’s face changed so fast it was almost ugly to watch.

‘What is that?’ she asked.

Elena closed the folder halfway and met her eyes.

‘Evidence Bradley wanted opened only if any of you entered this apartment after he died.’

Nobody moved.

Not one of them.

Then the deputy took one step inside, looked at the half-packed bags, and said, ‘I suggest everyone put everything back before she reads the next page.’

After my husband’s funeral, I returned home in a black dress that still carried the day’s warmth and the lingering scent of lilies.

I pushed open the front door expecting the hollow silence that follows loss, that heavy, unreal stillness where grief is finally allowed to settle.